


Human

by carvedwhalebones (fuckyeahlucifersupernatural)



Series: "Never Be Game Over" [1]
Category: Metal Gear, Metal Gear Solid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/carvedwhalebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter the distance or the time that has passed, they always have a way of finding each other. </p><p>(Pre-MGS1, before Liquid and Mantis joined FOXHOUND.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human

**Author's Note:**

> **1990:** Works for the British Special Force SAS to destroy the mobile Scud missile launchers in the Gulf War. During the mission he becomes a POW of Iraq and was declared a MIA. 
> 
>   **1994:** Rescued by the US government and returns to his country.   
> 
> “After single-handedly demolishing four launchers, he [Liquid Snake] was caught by Iraq paratroopers, became a POW, and disappeared. Instead of being executed by the Iraqis, Liquid Snake underwent a series of brainwashing sessions, and was then assigned to undertake major terrorist activities in the Middle East” _(Metal Gear Solid Official Mission Handbook)._
> 
>  
> 
> **MUSIC REFERENCED IN FIC:**  
> [ _Sing_ \- The Carpenters, _MGS: Peace Walker Soundtrack_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9_EQ_NyY0M)

**TRANSMISSION #18-20  
 GULF WAR, IRAQ  
FEBRUARY 1991**

_‘Sing, sing a song. Sing out loud, sing out strong…’_

When being tortured, you’re supposed to have conversations with yourself. Just prattle away in your own head as you’re strung up and beaten into submission. You have to find a way to distract yourself, SAS handbook suggesting self-stimulated conversation, singing, or achieving a “state of zen.” For the life of him, Eli can’t manage to hold a conversation with himself, let alone fall into some sort of meditative trance. So, Eli is left with The Carpenters playing in his skull through his labored breathing. 

They teach you how to resist torture in the Special Air Services. You’re fed every resistant technique (R21 - resistance to interrogation), watch endless hours of men and women torturing others on screen until you’re numbed to the concept, thrown into a reenactment when you least expect it, realize you’re not as numb as you’d have hoped, and expected to play a role in future reenactments with your fellow comrades in arms. Rinse and repeat. The end results are mixed, but always deleterious. More than a handful leave the special forces, refusing to partake, and whoever remains is left with bouts of dissociation. and emotional numbness The higher ups call it a “valuable tool to have on you in the field.” 

_‘…make it simple to last your whole life long…’_

He heard this song before. Ages ago, his mind painting the image of a machine? No, it spoke. A person? No… 

  Eli is trying to hum along with himself as his legs and ankles scream in protest. He has been awkwardly arranged and forced to squat for the past two minutes, grinding his teeth and watching his pride be the only thing keeping him from pleading to his captors. They want intel on Operation Granby. They want to know how his squad knew the locations of all of their mobile Scud missiles launching platforms. Eli wants to know how they knew of his location. How the hell did they know that was _his_ safe house? Where is the rest of _his_ squad? Were they gunned down? Are they elsewhere?

The blond bares his teeth and shuts his eyes before he’s vehemently mouthing out the words. _‘Let the world sing along. Sing of love there’_ — fuck. His right ankle feels close to snapping and he can’t stop his legs from shaking with sheer exhaustion, ready to give in on itself. _‘— there could be. Sing for you and for me.’_ He thinks he has it this time. Can feel the bright heat in his right ankle fading around the edges. Good. Good. Good, his attention fixated on the annoying, stupid chorus from the children. 

_‘La la la la la la la la la.’_

Something cold and wet jerks him out of his trance, jolting to attention. Stupefied and hissing at the throbbing paralysis keeping him rigid, he discovers he's on…the floor? His nose is aching something fierce and his head is ringing. Eli furrows his brows, blinking further back into awareness as he finds himself laying on his stomach, soaked by the water dumped on him. He looks for answers in the pair of boots in his line of vision.

“You passed out,” is explained in Arabic with an amused laughed. “Might have broken your nose when you tipped over.” 

There is shuffling and another pair of boots enter his line of sight. “Three minutes and forty seconds. A new record,” the first pair of boots comment, nearly sounding impressed. “I’m sure we can beat that time, hmm?” 

A snarl manages to push past his lips, baring his teeth and wishing he could move, but his body feels heavy and wrong. Hands are moving it for him, a sharp sound of pain leaving him in protest as his body surges with pain. He’s being adjusted, kicked hard whenever his body refuses to cooperate, until someone is suggesting they just tie him in position against his cell’s bars. Eli closes his eyes and the song starts all over again. 

*****

It’s by the end of the month does he come to terms with the fact that he has been abandoned by the SAS. SAS won’t even bargain with the other side for his life, or at least that is what he’s been informed. There is an ache in his gut that festers at the realization and he hates that he’s alone with his thoughts. He wants to lash out, to bare his teeth, to scream — _something_ , but he’s been left alone inside one of the cells. For the first time since he has arrived, he has been given three days of rest, the young blond rubbing his swollen ankles. 

He doesn’t understand. He did his job perfectly. He was more than adequate. Sure he was the youngest to be in the SAS, but his work, his efforts… 

Inside here, wherever this is, feels less like an interrogation for answers, but more of using him as a vessel for their revenge on the damage the SAS have committed. They must know he won’t talk, so why not dispose of him? Why has this been dragged out into months? 

Eli takes the time to take in his surroundings with a better eye, wracking his head for clues. 

Judging from how equipped and the lack of wear and tear on the uniform on the men who have been interrogating him, these are not the paratroopers that have caught him. The building, itself, is far from rundown and in more than adequate shape. Eli can’t say he’s sure where he is, let alone who his captors represent, but they must have had some sort of information on him. To have already been waiting for him at his own safe house? After he has been so careful with his movements. It smells wrong. Was he sold out? Did someone up above decide _Operation Victor Two_ would be his last assault? Was he a liability? How?! 

The thought hounds him and it’s hard not to bitterly remind himself that being abandoned is a redundant theme in his life’s story.

It’s probably better not to expect a rescue, anyways. Hope is something that can be exploited in the cell, Eli rationalizes. The young male ruminates and reshapes the thought to the point he is nearly smug that he has been abandoned. Good riddance. This can only serve as an advantage. 

It starts to sound less of an advantage when he hears footsteps in the distance.

**TRANSMISSION #29-32  
 ?????, IRAQ  
MARCH 1992**

They moved him sometime last year to another location. Kurdish guerrillas compromised their location and Eli hated that he valiantly hoped that he’d be forgotten in the confusion — that he’d be _saved_. Instead, he found himself blindfolded and escorted out, shoved into a van and frothing from the mouth in frustration. He still has the scar from when one of the personnel knocked him hard against the head when he kicked and howled, a ring or something catching flesh. He likes to press his finger into the groove it created just above his ear when he becomes restless in his cell.

They’ve long ago stopped asking about SAS missions or, even, SIS information. They never break anything serious and when they do, there is someone to slap a cast on him or pop a limb back in place. Maybe they want to keep him, he thinks idly. Eli has had a good chuckle at the thought, but why else is he here? The Gulf War has been, officially, declared over, or at least what he has overheard. There are murmurs of the U.S. close to electing a new president, the security around Saddam tightening, and an overall air of paranoia. 

He’s convinced they keep him more as something to toy with rather than a source of information on the SAS. He hasn’t seen any true attempts of converting him or brainwashing, but hell if he knows. Overall, the lack of an end game leaves him apprehensive. There may not be an end in sight for him, but he refuses to die like this. He won’t die by their hands. He can’t die yet.   

They’ve started, about a good….week, maybe? He’s not sure. It’s hard to keep track of the time that passes in this cell. They’ve started taking things away from him. Took away his clothes when he failed to obey a command, heated and humiliated at the eyes that lingered on him for too long and those who heckled at him. Next, they took away his cot. He has to earn to sleep on a cot, not on the floor. He has to earn his right to wear clothes, not stand about naked. 

Eli resisted. He would grind his teeth and endure, trying to find some sort of will within him to keep resolute. There is no training that can counter this. SAS staff have always informed them that when basic items are deprived, when humiliated, or when forced into unhygienic situations, to simply grin and bear it. Easier said than done. 

Sitting in a stress position near the four minute mark earns him back his clothes and he can hardly hide how grateful he is for their return. They laugh over how hastily he slides back on his pants, self-consciously slowing down his movements. It’s a stupid mistake to react to them or act so greedily with the offering of his clothes. Now they know what he’ll fight for. In an act of blind defiance, of gaining some sort of ground he just lost, he refuses to fully dress himself. The action only earns more laughter.

*****

It’s somewhere near summer, the heat leaving the building warm, does he realize that there is this tepid presence in the back of his skull. He’s not sure how to explain it. It’s like…a thought? A…sort of occupied space that he is beginning to acknowledge? All he can say for sure is that it’s reassuring and familiar, like a good memory that refuses to be spoiled or faded by time. 

A part of him realizes he might be losing it. This could be the premonition of some psychosis, or whatever it is that was on the consent form he signed before taking R2I courses. Or, it could be some wishful thinking — some sort of fantasy that there is this spot he can slip against and feel okay. Eli can’t say he particularly cares or is concerned on what it may be, spending what free time he has to muse over it. Hard to tell if he’s vividly pretending to experience this, but he embraces the distraction. 

It makes the oncoming days a bit more bearable, informed that his current interrogation team will be cycling out and a new team will be dealing with him. 

It’s easier to lose himself, to peel himself away from the moment. He can simply lean against this….pleasant force, idea — _something_ — and just cease to feel whatever is raining down on him. It has to be dissociation, but it never felt like this? It’s just a circular wonder he can lose himself in, blinking back into his body an hour later to find he’s been shoved back in his cell, bearing new aches and pains. 

Whatever this is that he’s doing, he’s desperate to keep it close and use it frequently. If he’s lucky, maybe he can remain in this fictional place in his skull until someone yanks him out of this hell hole.

**TRANSMISSION #44-49  
 ?????, IRAQ  
JANUARY 1993**

He’s not sure when he broke. Didn’t realize he _did_ break. Didn’t realize he became more dog than man. He snaps to attention when snapped at. Obeys when certain things are offered or threatened to be taken away. Once, he even got down on his back and showed his belly at the promise of a small tube of toothpaste. At the moment, the humiliation was worth the luxury item, his teeth rotting in his skull.

Eli doesn’t understand, caught in this state of mortification towards himself. When the hell did he give up?! How long has he been following their cues and orders? Did he lose track of himself? 

Eli spent the remainder of the day in a state of panic and rage, ruthlessly wrecking what he could of his cell and shouting out heated promises. He’s trying to regain whatever fight he lost — whatever self he lost. It earns him a week without his cot and baton raps against his knuckles until he’s seeing stars. His knuckles feel shattered, but it’s worth it. It’s absolutely worth it. There is that familiar, lukewarm heat stirring in the back of his skull, but he blocks it. He can’t lose himself, again.

While the beginning of his stay with his captors involved a higher level of supervision, as time has ebbed by, he has become more of an isolated prisoner in their cell than a constant punching bag. They’ve stopped questioning on any matter a while back. Maybe…a year ago? Eli isn’t sure. He has been struggling to keep track of the time that has passed when they moved him from his first location and any news of the outside world is little to none. 

Eli guesses it’s been a bit over a year since his initial capture.   The majority of his time is spent humming to himself, The Carpenters drifting in and out through his skull. Whenever he has a poor thought or he’s being pulled away for another session with his captors does he ignore that urge to sink into that fantastical thought, feeling, concept — whatever it is that is sitting snug in the back of his head. The need to be actively aware and, yet, unaware of what’s being dealt on him leaves him occupied and exhausted.

He supposes it’s a dangerous concept, whether to sink into that welcoming stupor or not, but Eli can’t bear to lose himself. It’s all he has left.

**TRANSMISSION #54-60  
?????, IRAQ  
JUNE 1993**

He's losing track of time, having moments where he closes his eyes and opens them to find a week has passed. His surroundings have, also, changed. His cot has been switched to a basic bunk bed and he’s in a simple room, fluorescent lights up above, a speaker on the left corner wall, and a end table to the right. Today, there is something new. There’s a dirty ashtray and the dying end of a cigarette inside. Was someone just with him?! Panic rushes upward and he’s quick movement, hastily patting himself down, eyeing himself with wild eyes. He finds an old bruise near his torso, old scars, and…a fair amount of meat on his bones?

Eli furrows his brows, baffled and warily examining his own features. They have hardly been feeding him anything substantial, dangerously malnourished and weak, and yet…

He doesn’t understand. He followed all of the techniques he learned. He refused to fool around with that comforting presence lurking in the back of his skull, assuming that was what was leading to his moments of befuddlement. 

The speaker crackles to life, 40s music begins to cycle in, the quality poor. The song ends and words are being spoken, an unknown voice giving the weather in Baghdad. Instantly, his confusion begins to fade and he closes his eyes, listening to the mindless drone until he opens his eyes and finds that two months have passed him by. 

*****

There are flashes of moments where he’s aware of his limbs moving, the sun beating down on his skin, and working with others. Sometimes he catches himself speaking amicably with them or camping outside of his cell — no, room. It’s a room, now. His own private room. The group is, currently, attacking a military camp and Eli, vaguely, registers that the camp is American. He weaves through the camp, setting up the explosives, laying low when someone stirs in their tent. Eli knows he can run. He’s free — outside of his cell walls! Yet he continues his work and rushes off to a safe distance with the others, watching fire streak across the horizon. 

He doesn’t want to leave. 

Eli holds recycled conversations with the others. The weather. They’re always talking about the weather. There is a sense of belonging that pleases him, feeling, surprisingly, secure in his environment. 

However, there are moments where he’ll find himself aware of that feeling in the background of all the white noise that is his thoughts and actions. It’s weaker, now. Faint. He swears there is a sensation of disconnect, as if the signal isn’t strong as it once was between both parties. Eli can’t quite understand it, but the speakers are crackling to life and the music plays.

**TRANSMISSION #95-101  
 ?????, IRAQ  
MARCH 1994**

The start of the month leaves him uncoordinated and stumbling in his own skin. The presence — the only way Eli can describe it, as of now — in his skull has become more prominent, as of late. It catches him off guard like a shiver of heat, skin breaking out into goosebumps and, momentarily, paralyzed. Eli remembers, vaguely, him instructing himself to avoid it, but he can’t find the reason as to why. So he’s left trying to solve this mystery, caught in a haze of heat before it fades.

_Eli._

He nearly caught a bullet because of it on the field. 

It, so far, has happened to him twice, enough for him to be escorted into his commanding officer’s office to be lectured at. Eli remembers waiting for him to arrive, the nearby radio crackling on about the weather, but he never remembers the actual meeting. One moment he’s there, the next he is back in his quarters, cleaning his equipment. Each moment of confusion, whenever he begins to pick out the discrepancies, is answered with that wave of recognition deep inside his skull. It pushes and nudges at him to question further until Eli is shaking his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he battles a piercing migraine. 

Eli likes to imagine the presence is stronger — more readily available when he goes out to reach for it. There still is a level of disconnect, the pieces not fully slotting together, but each sort of push and pull to find common ground leaves him warm and exhausted. He explains, when given questioning looks, he caught a fever or the heat has gotten to him. He explains to himself, when he feels that he is going mad, that what he’s feeling is real. 

For the next few days he dreams of a colossal machine and someone with hair the color of spilled blood. 

Sometimes, he can feel the presence’s location. It’s bizarre. It’s, simultaneously, lurking in his cranium, but it’s _that way_. It’s somewhere westward, Eli staring determinedly at the direction, only finding wall. It can stay that way for hours on end, this sort of nagging itch he can’t quite scratch at. Then it’ll vanish, his anticipation wilting and disgruntled for the remainder of the day. 

_Eli._

This time, he dreams of an offered hand, hidden in a long sleeve of fabric, and him grabbing it.

**TRANSMISSION #102-106**  
**?????, IRAQ**  
**APRIL 1994**  


_'59 degrees in Baghdad, 63 degrees in Kirkuk, 67 de͛̃̔ͬgrees iͬ̈̍͊̿̑̄n Ha͙̬̫̭̝l̜̮͈abja, 43 degrees in Zakho…’_

The weather is still being recited over the speakers when he, abruptly, wakes up, body far too warm and angrily kicking at the sheets. Eli never realized the speakers remained on at night, volume lowered down to a faint murmur as it repeats the same numbers and cities over and over again. There’s a drawn out crackle to a few of the words, squinting at the direction of the speaker. Eli glowers when he discovers it won’t stop, moving further on his bed to grope at the small lamp on the end table nearby. It takes a few tries before he can twist the switch, warm light illuminating the room. 

_’59 degrees in Baghdad, 63 degrees in Kirkuk, 67 de͛̃̔ͬgrees iͬ̈̍͊̿̑̄n Ha͙̬̫̭̝l̜̮͈abja, El͊̅iͪ͊̅̔ͯ̄̆ 43̷͉ ̤dè͖̙̘͕g͇̬̼̭͕̥͝r̠̩͎̹e̞e̮̫s ̴i͎͇̮͖̹̘n͖͈ Zzzzzzzz — ’_

It falls into static, the faint tell of garbled words lost amongst the noise. Ah, there _it_ is, again. He can feel _it_. 

Eli is, hastily, pulling himself upright, reminding himself to breathe. Warmth catches near the base of his skull and he involuntarily shudders, eyes moving to the door. He can hear his name and he’s not sure what to expect, fingers digging into the mattress underneath him.

His name is sighed into his head and, on cue, a familiar figure is peeling itself into existence in his room. Red hair catches his eyes, a fire sparking in his brain, sucking in the air violently at the sight. He remembers; slowly and incompletely, he recalls meeting _him_ in the helicopter. A warm, welcoming answer in the midst of his animosity and frustration. Another shriver catches the peak of one of his shoulder blades and he exhales shakily, watching the figure form in completion before him. 

His name is spoken, again, in his thoughts. There is something like overwhelming panic in his throat and the oncomings of another migraine. A part of him knows that he was never meant to be in Iraq this long. A part of him knows that something is wrong. Yet, another, is overcome with relief, recognition greeting him from both sides. There is the chance this is just a hallucination or another wild dream of his, but he’s pushing himself onto his feet and reaches out. He knows that face. He knows that head of red hair. Fingers catches the cool leather of a gas mask, wracking his mind for the right words. 

“I remember you,” he manages to croak out in Russian, tongue a bit poor with the needed inflections. 

There is a surge of warmth and recognition greeting his skull, almost dizzying, but he can’t fight the small smile curling at the edge of his lips. _Tretij Rebenok._ He remembers _Tretij Rebenok._ His headache pulsates and beats against his skull insistently despite the pleasant force flooding his system.

“You learned Russian,” is returned, voice nasally through the gas mask. A broken laugh leaves Eli, his other hand finding a bony shoulder, squeezing it. He doesn’t remember, _actually_ , hearing Tretij voice, save for what conversations they had in each other’s skulls. He idly wonders if it was Tretij that he has been feeling, than, for the past years. The thought is spoiled by the dull throbbing in his skull, moving the hand off his shoulder to angrily rub at his forehead. 

_We need to leave, Eli,_ a voice urges and the blond only digs his blunt nails into the flesh of his forehead. 

He’s not sure he wants to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it, hate it? Tell me in a review!_
> 
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> 
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> 
>  **MGS Tumblr:** : beloveddisciple.tumblr.com


End file.
